Fruit Stripe Barn

O fruit stripe barn,

in the wilds of western Illinois,

down an old highway

traveled only by those seeking to avoid others,

you rise from the oppressive flatness,

a beacon of whimsy

in the monochrome landscape.

What farmer planted you there and

what attack of fancy led to the pastel

stripes of your suit; every color of sherbet represented,

faded and peeling but still

colorful after all these years?

You are long disused, a crumbling monument to

different times, and I

can’t help but feel that you

remained standing just so that I

could see you this morning

and smile at your audacity.